Just too far gone, he is.
People watch him, sitting there, completely out of it. Slumped against a pole, eyelids fluttering with his breathing labored in the snow. He sniffles from the chilly air, his mind elsewhere and his body limp. But despite the cold, Ian can't feel it because of the amount of drugs coursing through his veins like lava. Ian tries to stand up, but his limbs tremble and he falls again.
Amid his delirium, he finds himself laughing, the sound ringing out into the cold night air. It's a manic, unhinged laughter, tinged with a hint of madness. But to Ian, it's simply the euphoria of the moment, the unbridled joy of being alive, of being in New York City, of being lost in the chaos of his mind.
Oblivion.
***
As Ian slowly wakes up, the disorientation hits him like a freight train. His senses are assaulted by the unfamiliar surroundings—the cold touch of metal beneath him, the echoing vibration of the walls, the oppressive weight of the roof above. He struggles to make sense of where he is.
The room seems to spin around him, the floor tilting beneath him like a ship in a storm. He attempts to rise, but his muscles betray him, heavy and weak as if laden with chains. With a futile effort, he pushes himself up, only to collapse back onto the unforgiving floor. A pounding headache threatens to split his skull in two, and his stomach churns with a sickening queasiness.
Withdrawal.
The more he tries to ignore it, the more it consumes him, a relentless beast gnawing at his insides. Sweat beads on his forehead, his breath coming in ragged gasps as desperation claws at him.
Suddenly, the harsh clang of metal reverberates through the room as the doors are flung open, revealing a group of figures looming over him. Panic grips Ian as he realizes he's been taken, kidnapped by these men. They drag him out into the blinding lights of a garage.
In a daze, Ian finds himself ushered into another room, his surroundings a blur of motion and noise. His head hangs limply, the cold sweat on his forehead mingling with the hot flush of panic. Footsteps echo all around him as a hand reaches out, tilting his chin upward to meet a pair of cold, calculating eyes.
"How do you feel about some china white?"
He nods clumsily, his desperation laid bare for all to see. The man chuckles darkly, his fingers slicing through lines of powder on a small board. Ian's limbs tremble as his head is forced forward, and he hastily snorts the powder. He feels the familiar rush coursing through his veins.
Bittersweet.
But even as relief floods his senses, Ian's mind is going in circles from the whole situation in front of him.
"Where am I?" he croaks, his voice barely above a whisper. "I need to get back to the group... Mac and Micah and André and Rasmus." His words are slurred, disjointed, a desperate plea for escape.
The man before him sneers, his tattooed arms crossing over his chest. "Didn't seem that way," he scoffs, a cruel smirk twisting his lips as he lifts Ian's tank top. "Ooh, he's built too. Let's put him to work." With a malicious glint in his eye, he gestures toward a nearby dressing room, his intentions clear.
Ian's confusion turns to horror as he realizes his intentions. "Wait, what? Work?" he stammers, his voice trembling with fear.
The man's smirk widens into a sinister grin. "Yeah, you'll be working for me," he says, his tone dripping with malice. "But first, let's see what you've got, baby." With a rough shove, Ian is thrown onto a carpet, his body pinned beneath the weight of the men.
He struggles against them, but their grip is iron-clad and their intentions are fucking clear as they slide Ian's jeans off. With a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach, Ian realizes the severity of the situation. Bound and helpless, he can only watch in horror as it unfolds before his eyes.